


proposals

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-13
Updated: 2013-03-13
Packaged: 2017-12-05 04:47:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/719045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a perfectly average day, of no significance at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	proposals

It's fine.  
  
It's a quiet neighborhood, and you have a quiet life.  
  
"We're out of breakfast cereal," Karkat says.  He's chewing on the end of the pen in his mouth, looking at a rumpled sheet of lined notebook paper that he dug out of his pocket.  You picture him biting through it and getting ink all over his face.  It's happened before.  It'd be funny if it happened again.  "And milk."  
  
You're sitting at the kitchen table, with the inserts from the Sunday paper.  Comics and coupons.  You're sifting through the latter; none of the strips this week were good enough to warrant sticking to the fridge.  "There are some deals on microwave chicken strips," you tell him, tossing an inksaturated sheet of advertisements and bar codes into the Maybe pile.  "And scented Tide."  
  
"If you wash any of our clothes with scented detergent, I'll fucking divorce you," Karkat says, absentminded.  
  
Your heart does one of those odd somersaults that it does, sometimes, when he says a thing or does a thing and the angle is just right to strike you.  "Karkat," you tell him.  "That's dumb."  
  
He hums and nods and shuffles his feet a little.  He's not really paying attention, he's mumbling under his breath and thumbing through the grocery list, scrawling down DETERGENT? and EGGS in his clumsy hand.  Not that you have substantially better penmanship.  But it's fun to find things to tease him about.    
  
You remember when you first moved into this house and did your laundry in separate clandestine loads.  One weekend you were tired and fed up and he'd left his clothes in the washer and forgotten about them, and you hesitated for a few minutes before tossing yours in with his.  Carefully measured out a little more detergent.  Adjusted the length of the wash and spin cycles by a few more minutes.  Pressed the button, and let the washer run, the door locking automatically.  You felt like you'd done something momentous.  
  
You folded his clothes when they were dry, too.  
  
It's normal to wash your clothes together, now.  
  
Any of 'our' clothes, he said.  Because it's all one batch.  
  
"We'd have to get married first," you tell him.  
  
"Hmm?"  He finally looks over at you.  "What?"  
  
"Let's go to the park after I get back from work," you say.  
  
"No, what did you say before?" he insists, a touch of uncertainty in his tone.  It's a little awful of you, maybe, to think he's cute when he doesn't know what's going on.  Only a little though.  
  
"Did I say something before?"  
  
"Yes you did, you coy asshole," he snaps.  You grin a little wider.  "Tell me what you said."  
  
"Scented detergents aren't all that bad."  
  
"They're fucking terrible," he concludes, giving up and rolling his eyes at you in a way he probably thinks is super-emphatic but actually just makes him look young.  "Sure, it's nice out.  Let's go."  
  
"See you later, then," you say, and get up, putting your mug in the sink.  You fill it with water and let it start to overflow, water and the dregs of creamer and coffee spilling over the rim, tapwater running over your fingers.  If you shut your eyes, you can hear him shuffling around behind you, sifting through the coupon stack, bare feet sliding over the floor.  Simple.  Nice.  
  
Neither of you need to work.  None of you do.  You get a stipend.  But Rose said it was fine if you got a job.  She said it makes sense that you'd want to stay busy.  That it keeps you sane to have something to do every day, and that you're easier to deal with when you aren't bored.  She said it in a very tactful way.  
  
Karkat agreed with her on that last bit, only he was way more rude about it, and you laughed and messed up his hair and he shoved you off the couch and you spent hours getting the popcorn out of the carpet.  
  
“Yeah,” you hear him say, behind your left ear.  His hand on your elbow; brief, gentle pressure.  Some hesitance.  Is he going to go up on his toes and press a kiss to the side of your face, or chicken out?  You turn the tap off.  
  
He chickens out.    
  
“Yeah okay the store’s going to get busy and they have a small parking lot so I’d better go do that now.  See you later,” he mumbles, and he can’t look you in the eye as he storms off to get his shoes and tattered, patched-up jacket.  
  
“Don’t forget your wallet,” you yell after him, to an answering annoyed noise and the sound of the front door closing.  
  
‘See you later’.  It’s a date, isn’t it?  Yeah.  
  
What a ridiculous person.  
  
You’re still smiling.  
  
You tend to zone out during your day at the city's clerical office, the hazy bloc of time when Karkat is apart from you.  Phone calls, documents to notarize, forms to triple-check, information requests.  You daydream all the time; after the apocalypse of SBURB, there's not much that can command your attention.  Your idle drifting thoughts are a low-level hum at the back of your mind as you carry out rote tasks and try not to accumulate papercuts, or get too much ink on your fingers.    
  
This peaceful world is soft and sunny and you don't trust it; soft-and-sunny things tear easily as cellophane, and lives are wrecked by little more than circumstance.  You smile and laugh it off, but it irritates you.  How easily hurt they are.  How frail everything is.  It feels like all these weaknesses are a burden you're obliged to carry.  Everyone you care for carves out a piece of your concern.    
  
You resent being tied down, and the fact of so many invisible shackles makes you want to kick a wall, over and over again, in mindless frustration, or simply take to the skies.    
  
It pisses you off, so you detach.  It's irritating.  Float up and leave it behind you.  You can't stand it.  Smile and laugh.  It's shitty.  Who cares?  If you let yourself care too much you don't know what you'd do.  Go crazy, probably.  
  
If it's Karkat, though, somehow...  
  
"-bert, are you listening?"  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"I said, did you want me to order Chinese for you?"  The girl who works at the front desk has her phone and a shortlist of orders in one hand and she's giving you a bemused look.  "Parking citations can't be that interesting."  
  
"You'd be surprised," you counter, rolling your shoulders and stretching your arms behind your head.  "Nah, I'm all set, I brought lunch."  
  
"We'll be eating in the courtyard, if you feel like dropping by."  
  
"Thanks!"  
  
You still can't remember her name.  She seems nice, though, in a mild and vacant way.  Like most of the people on the planet, she doesn't have the capacity to understand what you and your friends went through.  It's alienating, at times, like watching a world of children play house.  You hope that nothing really bad ever happens to her.  
  
Karkat packed your lunch for you.  Deli meat sandwich - turkey, it tastes like - and some thin avocado slices.  Mostly-crisp lettuce.  Toasted whole wheat bread.  Ketchup and mustard.  On the side:  Water bottle.  Two hardboiled eggs, shelled, with some salt and pepper packets he had to have saved from the last time you ordered takeout; one small apple.  Very professional, he even packed a napkin.  
  
It'd be expecting too much, you think, for him to pack you a cute note.  He has a word vomiting problem, he'd fill up a whole book before he got to the point, and who has that kind of time, packing lunch?  
  
Still -  
  
You lift up the top slice of bread on your sandwich.    
  
Yep.  It's blotchy, and kinda obscured with mustard, but he made a ketchup heart.  Like he wasn't quite sure he wanted you to see it.  He's preposterous.  
  
 _thanks for the sandwich! :)_  you text him.  
  
 _YOU'RE WELCOME, JOHN_ , he texts back after twenty minutes of obvious deliberation.  You've finished the eggs and the sandwich, and you're nibbling at the apple; you find yourself smiling again.  You won't tell him whether or not you found his secret ketchup message.  It's more fun to imagine him guessing and getting worked up about it.  
  
Somehow, if it's Karkat, putting up with him doesn't feel tiresome at all.  Like you're always carrying him, but he makes you lighter.  Something easy, and simple.  
  
Nothing urgent, nothing world-shaking.  But sweeter and sweeter over time.  Every botched gesture and fumbling sentence and tantrum endears him to you.  Laughter that clears your lungs.  A breath of fresh air, before you have to head back to ground level and continue putting things in envelopes.    
  
As you slowly diminish your inbox you recall memories of a time he kissed you goodnight: already half-asleep, but very determined.  
  
You have things to staple, holes to punch, faxes to send.  But for a few moments you think instead about the way it felt to have him curl up on top of you and fall asleep, gravity pressing him into your arms.  It was dark out, and the streetlights were orange-yellow, and there was a gentle fall of rain against the roof.    
  
He marathoned a soap opera that night.  You forget what it was about - relationships, dramatic office politics - but you remember it had a catchy theme song that looped over and over again on the DVD menu screen, volume down low, after he'd fallen asleep on you.  You were too lazy and comfortable on the couch to bother turning it off.  You thought to yourself: _I could put up with this forever._  
  
"Head in the clouds?" another coworker asks you and you jump a little.  You think his name is Barry, but you aren't sure.  
  
"Heh.  Yeah, you caught me," you say.  You realize you've been clicking your pen absentmindedly, and put it down, rolling it across your desk with your fingertips.  
  
"Got something on your mind?"  
  
"Kinda," you admit.  It's something, all right.  
  
He scratches his balding head in an awkward, genial way.  "Well, I hope it's the fincom reports, because Sue asked me to remind everyone - there's that finance committee meeting on Monday."  
  
"Oh.  Right.  That would be this coming Monday?"  You pretend to write it down.  You are drawing an airplane.  
  
"It's at the high school gym, so if you want to volunteer to set up chairs or anything, she has the sign-up sheet.  I'll be bringing cups."  
  
"Is this thing mandatory?"  
  
Barry - or maybe Steve? - blinks at you.  "It's kind of a team spirit thing, John," he says in an apologetic yet chiding tone of voice, which means yeah, it's mandatory.  "Besides, they'll need your reports on traffic citations and road work - she's out to gut the police budget, y'know, twist some arms, get more funding for the PLTA."  He beams and winks at you.  
  
"Great," you say.  "Sure is nice to be important."  
  
"Attaboy," he says, and seems to genuinely mean it.  He is blissfully immune to humor.  "Shoot me an email if you want in on the carpool."  
  
"I'll be fine," you assure him, glancing out the window to check the weather.  It's a perfect day.  "I take the bus."  
  
Barry nods, giving you a thumbs-up as he walks down the hall to the next office.  It wasn't a total lie.  Sometimes you do take the bus.  Like when it's raining, or when it's more fun (holding his hand, skipping through the city at night, breathless and laughing) to stick to the ground.  
  
It's Friday, so you'll have time to write up those reports over the weekend.  
  
Tonight, though, you have other stuff to think about.  
  
You call him when you're leaving the office - you're a pretty diligent worker, but you're slow, so you're usually one of the last people to leave.  He picks up immediately after the third ring.  Like he wanted to pick up right away, but picking up before three rings was too soon.  
  
"John?"    
  
It's been almost eight hours since you heard his voice.  You're walking to the end of the parking lot at a light gait - when he picks up your stomach flips and your toes barely skim the asphalt.  "Guess who!"  
  
"John, it's clearly you, don't be a bulgespur."  
  
"Ding ding ding!  Got it in one."  
  
"For fuck's sake," he mutters, voice staticky yet tolerant - you hear some muffled background noises.  "What if this isn't Karkat, you ass.  What if some crazy fucking vigilante took my phone and you're speaking to a -"  
  
"I didn't say your name, so you kind of gave it away, just now," you tell him.  
  
" - mugger with poor impulse control.  You're fucking toast, buddy, your phone has a geolocator. Who's gonna tell shitty jokes to this Karkat guy whenever he picks up his phone now."  He has this great way of posing rhetorical questions with very emphatic periods, as if to discourage people from trying to answer them.  
  
"You said my name right when you picked up," you point out, giddy in the hollow of your chest.  
  
"What the fuck do you want," he says.  You can picture the look on his face - annoyed at you, annoyed with himself for putting up with you, fidgeting with something.  
  
"I'm on my way home now, where are you?"  
  
He pauses.  You hear him breathe.  
  
"I'm.  I'm actually at the convenience store, I forgot some shit earlier."  
  
"The one right down the street?"  It's open twenty-four hours and it's your favorite place to walk to at four in the morning when you can't sleep; the building is sandwiched between an Italian restaurant and a small florist's, so the lot always smells like dinner or flowers.  
  
"Yeah.  That one.  Listen, John - just meet me at home, okay?"  
  
He says 'home' like it's normal, without even pausing.    
  
You both used to call it 'the house'.  But you started slipping up after a while, and now he says 'home', too, without even pausing to think about it.  Homes are special.  They are places that stick to you, inside your skin; places you carry around with you.  
  
It's getting dark but you feel a little warmer, like there's sunlight trapped inside you and it's starting to spill out.  
  
"Race you," you offer, and hang up on him squawking.  
  
The sky is, as always, yours.  
  
The house you live in with Karkat is on a dead-end street that trails off into the forested edge of a large park.  It makes for an easy place to touch down without being too obvious; you’re just walking home to pick him up and walk back, and take over the swingset.  
  
The clouds are red and pink and charming in a surreal way.  The pavement you’re walking down seems bluish.  Sitting on the front steps, still wearing the clothes he put on this morning, face illuminated by his phone, is Karkat.  He’s got a bag at his feet.  
  
You don’t have time to call out or text him a winking smiley face - he looks up, suddenly, and sees you.  The smile - goofy-looking and full of teeth - is instantaneous, and you’re sure you look just as dumb and happy.  
  
“I’m home,” you say, brushing your wind-tossed hair out of your eyes and adjusting your glasses.  
  
“Welcome back,” he says, trying not to smile at you, standing up and dusting the seat of his pants off.  “How was your -”  
  
“What’s in the bag?” you ask, reaching for it, and he yelps, batting your hand away from it.  
  
“For fuck’s sake, John -”  
  
“Are those what I think they are?”  
  
“Could you just stop being a fucking bulge blister for five minutes -”  
  
He’s trying to hold it out of your reach, but your arms are longer, so you manage to swipe it, and immediately look inside.  
  
“Holy shit,” you hear yourself say.  You are holding a plastic handle in each trembling fist and your face feels like you’re wearing a comically exaggerated expression of shock, except this is totally genuine.   Your heart is going a mile a minute.  
  
Inside the bag is a slightly-squashed bouquet of white orchids.  They smell nice - despite being kind of squashed.  Karkat went and bought you flowers.  He wasn’t at the convenience store, he was at the florist’s.  What a shitty liar.  You look up at him.  He looks deeply annoyed, and also a little hesitant.  You open your mouth.  
  
“You’re really stupid for me.  Like, for real.”  
  
“What?”  
  
You swallow.  “You bought me flowers, Karkat,” you say.  You both pause.  “... You got me flowers.  Holy shit.”  
  
“Way to rub it in,” he says, hiding his face in his hands like he’s embarrassed to know you.  
  
“Aren’t they supposed to be red roses?” you say.  You can’t stop smiling.  There’s a warmth in your face.  “Aren’t those the cheesy romantic ones?”  
  
“No, the girl at the shop said - never fucking mind, look them up yourself.”  
  
“Ooooooh.  Secret flower message,” you murmur, sing-song, and reach into the bag.  Karkat hears the plastic crinkle - he manages to overcome his embarrassment long enough to hit your hand again.  
  
“No, fuck you, I get to give these to you, stop rummaging around in the bag!”  
  
He’s so pissed off.  
  
You’re so happy you could burst.  
  
He ceremoniously reaches into the bag, pulls out the bouquet, and then holds it out to you.  It’s completely redundant because you spoiled the surprise, but you’re willing to play along with him anyway.  

This is a mental image you’ll never forget: Karkat at sunset, face an unguarded expression of serious hope beneath hair as messy as yours, offering you flowers.  You accept them with due solemnity, and try not to giggle.  
  
“Should I put them in water?”  
  
“Yeah, probably.”  
  
“Hang on a second, then, I’ll be right back,” you tell him; you kiss him on the cheek and he shivers, and then you head inside to the kitchen, floating indoors.  When did your feet leave the ground?  It’s hard to say.  Just - look at this dumbass troll, making you sandwiches and buying you flowers and folding your laundry and making you watch shitty TV.  Have you ever been giddier?  You feel so punch-drunk.  
  
You put the stems carefully in a tall glass of water and admire them for a minute.  
  
Then you hover out again, feet barely touching the floor.  
  
He gasps when you loop your hands around his waist from behind and lift him into the air.  
  
“Fuck - someone’s going to see - put me down, you ass -”  
  
“Don’t care,” you whisper into his ear, and hold him tighter.  He stops squirming, eventually, and relaxes a little.  Instead of trying to elbow you in the face he starts clinging to your arms.  
  
“John,” he begins.  You can feel him breathing and feel his bloodpusher going crazy.  You’re absolutely sure he’s blushing.  “I -  I just -”  
  
That’s your cue for liftoff.  
  
The park is totally deserted when you finally set down, and let Karkat unwrap your hands from his middle and hit you over the head and tell you you’re a reckless bucktoothed idiot and he’s lucky he didn’t die.  You tackle him and get grass stains on the knees of his jeans and at some point you’re both tickling each other and trying your hardest not to laugh first.  He loves flying just as much as you do.  You can’t tell if it’s warm out or if you’re just running at a high temperature because of being near him.  
  
By the time you head over to the swingsets, the stars are coming out.  They’re different from the ones you remember from your childhood.  They’re different from the ones Karkat remembers, too.  But they’re still lovely.  You made a great universe.  
  
“What did you do today?” you ask, swinging alongside him.  
  
“I ran errands and then I took the train to Dave’s place to hang out with Terezi,” he says, kicking up against the ground and then swinging his legs forward.  “She’s doing better.  I don’t know what their deal is, because they’re cagey assholes, but I think they’re okay?  They say hi, by the way.”  
  
You snort, and lean back on the upswing.  “Yeah, not like you and Dave are best buddies or anything.”  
  
“Oh my god,” he groans.  “Shut the fuck up.”  
  
For a while, you’re together in pleasant silence.    
  
You’re swinging in almost perfect tandem.  It dislodges a memory from your early childhood.  
  
“Hey, Karkat,” you say.  “We’re married.”  
  
“John - What?”  He nearly falls off the swing and totally fucks up the rhythm, and you have to laugh.  
  
“It’s a human kid thing!  When you’re swinging together with someone and your swings match up, you’re married.”  
  
“John, that’s dumb,” he calls over to you, and you shrug.  

All the same, he makes an effort to  match you again, adjusting his kicks; he reaches out with one hand and then you’re swinging and holding hands at the same time, and his palm is sweaty and he’s holding on too tight and the moon is starting to come up and this is too great for words.  Your stomach is doing somersaults again, especially on the downswing.  
  
When you reach the apex of the swing’s height, you launch yourself off the seat, feet-first into the starry sky, and pull Karkat with you.  
  
He makes this incredibly funny yelling noise.  

You’re exhilarated.  
  
You do the windy thing before you hit the ground, gently setting him down on the grass, and he punches you in the arm and calls you an asshole and you just laugh harder because god, if only he could have seen his face.  And then he grabs your jaw in his hands and you think maybe he’s going to try to cover your mouth to get you to quit laughing, in which case you’ll just lick his hand until he gets grossed out and stops, but instead he kisses you.  
  
That’s one way to get you to shut up.  
  
Your whole body is singing.  
  
You pull him closer, and kiss back.  
  
“ - hey,” you murmur, pulling back a little, resting your foreheads together.  He’s managed to squirm his way into your lap, and he’s holding your shoulders.  It’s easy to lose track of time, kissing him.  “Hey, Karkat?”  
  
“What now?” he mumbles.  He looks kind of out of it.  It’s dark, but you can tell he’s blushing from the heat of his face beneath your hands.    
  
“We should get married for real.”  
  
It takes him a lot longer to answer than you thought it would.  He’s perfectly still.  
  
“It’s legal now?” he says, finally.  “Did they rule on it?  I thought the decision wasn’t going to be out until November.”  
  
“I have no idea,” you admit.  “I don’t really pay attention.”  
  
“You’re a fucking idiot,” he says.  His voice is thick and his cheeks are wet beneath your thumbs.  “I can’t believe you -”  
  
“Karkat, you’ve been paying attention?” you ask, nudging his nose with yours.  “How long have you wanted to marry me?”  
  
“Oh my god,” he mumbles, refusing to answer for the sake of his nonexistent dignity, and buries his face in your shoulder.  
  
You wrap your arms around him and run a hand up and down his back.  The moon is just barely starting to wax; it’s a thin, pretty crescent in the sky.  
  
“I don’t care, you know,” you say eventually, once he calms down a little.  “If it’s illegal.  As long as you want to be married.”  
  
“... Okay,” he says, to your shoulder.  
  
“So that’s a yes?”  
  
“Guess,” he says.  
  
“Better tell me clearly so I get it,” you insist, grinning at the night over his shoulders, ruffling his hair.  “I’m a big idiot, remember?”  
  
“Fine,” Karkat says, and pulls back to glare right into your eyes.  It’s the prettiest glare in the world.  “Since you’re so _dense_.  I accept your shitty proposal.”  
  
You have never been giddier.    
  
“Happy anniversary!” you tell him, and kiss him again.  
  
Later you order spaghetti and meatballs from the Italian place down the street, once you’ve walked home together, his fingers tightly laced together with yours.

**Author's Note:**

> _White flowers are elegant and modest. Their pure color symbolizes innocence, humility and grace. Giving white flowers shows that you are sincere and full of hope, and that you believe that your love is pure. They represent kindness and truth. White flowers are also given or used to mark new beginnings, like on a first date or in weddings._
> 
> _The graceful beauty of a white orchid should remain reserved for someone special. There are plenty of other flower choices for any day of the year, but the white orchid is for the wise, the wondrous, the most beautiful and loving person in your life. Give your mother a pink orchid, give your friend a yellow one, but save the white for the person you love the most._
> 
> \- from eHow. go figure, huh?


End file.
